


A Double Bed, And A Stalwart Lover For Sure

by PeopleInThatBackRoom



Category: Music RPF, Real Person Fiction, The Smiths
Genre: Johnny and Angie didn't get married, Multi, Past Infidelity, Past Johnny Marr/Angie Marr, Past Johnny Marr/Morrissey, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-10
Updated: 2015-10-10
Packaged: 2018-04-20 09:58:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4783145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeopleInThatBackRoom/pseuds/PeopleInThatBackRoom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Johnny's feeling sorrowful—Mike says he'll drink to that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Double Bed, And A Stalwart Lover For Sure

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ad_Absurdum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ad_Absurdum/gifts).



> For Ad_Absurdum, who also introduced me to the pairing of Johnny/Mike—which I shall admit, sounds ludicrous, but this is _fanfiction_ so it definitely wouldn't be fair to demand more from me; an amateur writer who has too much time on their hands, hmm? 
> 
> This takes place during The Smiths Era, but I've tweaked facts and other things a bit so that Johnny isn't with Angie and Moz is too infuriated with the guitarist to _have the hots_ for him.
> 
> Beta'd by: Ad_Absurdum

_Life is very long when you're lonely._

Well, Johnny believed he'd finally grasped what those words meant. At least, he had on a personal level. Yes, Johnny Marr, the talented, eclectic guitarist for The Smiths was utterly alone. There wasn't any need for pity from anyone in his predicament— it was wholly his fault.

He juggled between love; cheating, lying, slightly twisting his way round its rules until its other participants grabbed him by his heels and demanded an answer. He obviously could not offer any answer that would satisfy them, and so all three suffered the horrid consequences.

His mind most likely would have rambled on the noteworthy subject for a longer while, had Johnny not pull his thoughts away. As important as he understood them to be, he knew he would not be forgiven for fucking up today.  _Especially, by one person in particular_ , he mused with a heavy heart.

Never mind that. He had a rehearsal to attend to, did he not?

Yes, he answered without a second thought, grabbing his guitar, leaving his comfortable living-space to go and meet up with Andy, Mike and Mozzer. 

The result was......typical, really—everything panned out normally. They had all met up as usual, to practice to their hearts' content before the gig they had later on, and all the things that commenced during the lengthy time period seemed positively ordinary. This wasn't the case; at least, not entirely so. Morrissey wasn't speaking to him, however this didn't worry Johnny in the least —he deserved it, rather, for all the trouble he'd caused this enchanting, whimsical, melodramatic artist of a man. A man who so often sung out the cries of the unfortunate commoner; throwing out his alluring, coy heart without fully giving it away. Johnny could really only wonder how broken he felt inwardly; though wonder, and nothing more—and he played out his voice and unique strengths through his instrument.

He wanted to stay this way: cool, calm; laconic if possible, but he knew he couldn't. He knew his willpower was draining quickly as the moments carried onward and soon he was pretty sure he'd start to drink his troubles away. And if not drink, then perhaps smoke. Whatever he was to do with himself, he could not dwell on it at the moment. No, not at all. 

Time did not show him sympathy even after their rather grueling rehearsal had finished— no, it apparently wanted him to suffer through the gig they were to have as well for, he was kept busy as ever. Maybe he hadn't noticed such things beforehand, however, he did now. Tiredness, stress, and loneliness came up from the shallow resting places, chasing after him to a point that Andy became concerned. Not that the bassist was able to show much of it. He was dragged away by Morrissey who just so happened to look as bad as Johnny presently felt. This intrigued the guitarist and filled him with guilt. Now he wondered just how hurt the singer was from the mess he had created in their lives— and when he did, Johnny could honestly claim he felt like shite. 

With dejection as his slave-driver Johnny made no protest to Mike's invitation to accompany him to a pub. Even if now he only wished he was allowed to rest and clear his head. He was so tired. So very tired and... 

"Fuck, Johnny, have you heard a word I've said?"

Johnny shook his head, letting out a small grunt as an apology of some sort. Mike snorted, and almost tentatively let his curiosity mix with his concern: "It is Mozzer?"

"What? Why do you-"

"He didn't talk to you throughout practice," Mike took a swig of the alcoholic drink in front of him. "He didn't even seem to look at you. He's always been clingy around you and today he was keeping company with _Andy_ instead," Mike stated, clearly believing his facts were self-evident—which they were, but Johnny wasn't going to admit that. At least, not right away.

"And if he feels he needs to distance himself?"

Mike looked positively indignant at Johnny's verbal defense of Morrissey's recent behavior. Johnny didn't exactly care—he knew that he would obviously be losing this argument, however, —and knowing this, he excused himself from the bar, paying his share of the tab he and Mike had. Only a bit later, Mike emerged from the building, heading towards him. Oh well, he probably wouldn't hold his ground for more than a couple of seconds by this point in time.

And he didn't. The guitarist broke his childish rebuttal and confessed to Mike, all the secrets he had long hidden within his subconscious. Mike listened intently until the man sitting beside him had ceased talking. Part of the burden this awful situation had laid on him dissolved, and he found himself less worn out than he had been earlier. The majority of it remained, although it did not poke him too sharply in the silence that now engulfed them.

"I'll drink to that." Mike stated brusquely, pretending to lift up a glass of alcohol to his mouth, as if he were to indulge himself with the imaginary liquid.

Oddly enough, Mike's comment made a smile began to try and claw its way to his lips. That one silly remark lit a fire within his belly and he felt as if he could laugh hysterically. This very well served to remind him that though he hadn't yielded completely to the strong alcohol, he had more than a bit of it. Perhaps, he wondered, it was enough he unwind his mental state, if only for a second or two.

Indeed, for the next couple of moments he felt as if he were going through a particular cycle of feelings: one minute he could mourn for hours, next he was filled with rage, only to end with a fit of giggles This went on for a while (much to the amusement of the drummer watching him), until his emotions landed on a burning sensation of a feeling: _l_ _ust_.

To be frank: Johnny became horny. Unbearably so.

"Damn, Johnny, are you-"

"Shite, Mike, I'm....."

Johnny found himself lost for words as Mike grabbed him by the wrist and led him back to the quite stuffy hotel they and the other band members had the privilege of occupying. This action perplexed him greatly, however, only for a short while. When he spotted the now heavenly looking object he called his bed, his mind was put at ease and the guitarist began to feel rather sleepy.

However, as he laid back upon the bed, no slumber of any sort came upon him. Instead, lust indulged itself.

In this most unusual sort of misery Johnny , partially drunk, sexually aroused and extremely tired, sent out a small plead to his bandmate, hoping it wouldn't be taken as an offense —that was very much the last thing he needed.

"Mike, I...... _fuck_ —help me out, please."

And for some reason —one that Johnny figured would always be unknown to him—Mike complied with his wish. He went goes along with all Johnny's wants, desires, carnal needs, veiling his judgements (if they were even popping in the Mike's mind) under a thick silence broken only by the occasional sensual noise.

Soon, clothes were shed and this restrained libido was practically cackling at Johnny now. Mike didn't seem to care so Johnny followed the other man's example, 

"Condom? Lube," he partially mumbled out, hoping Mike would happen to have such things somewhere. 

"I haven't got any. Have you?" Mike asked, knowing he hadn't any at the present moment. 

"Yeah, hold on," said Johnny complying instantly. Yet, inwardly he groaned at the aspect of getting up and searching about for the items (he knew it was a selfish and lazy thought, but as sexually charged as he felt at the moment, he felt a small benefit of the doubt could be given). He muddled about the room for said things, frustrated. And perhaps a bit disappointed. This wasn't how he pictured anything turning out ( _and_ of course, it was slightly unromantic to scrabble around for a condom and lubrication—it shouldn't have matter anyway, really. This wasn't supposed to be a giddy, heavenly feeling of sex between lovers. This was fucking). 

Nor was this with his beautiful Angie or his quirky Moz, —maybe that was what was wrong. Clearly, by the current predicament he was in, neither Ange nor Moz were in no way his—not at all. This somewhat debauching action involved Mike. Mike- _fucking_ -Joyce. Not that there was anything wrong with the drummer. The real problem lied within his own self and the guilt he harbored from hurting the ones he loved dearly. Yet, all the while he found himself falling deeper into this pit of shameless, unrestrained foolhardiness. 

Tonight, though, he wouldn't solve the problem speedily as he would with Angie, neither would he dwell and argue back and forth on it with a tiresomely-long and droll vocabulary as he would with Moz. No, this very night, Johnny Marr would enslave his mind to nothing besides the pleasurable sensation he was receiving. He would lazily fuck everything over for a moment (or _five_ ), and let all his raw lust, all his mental dialogue and last-minute reminders and regrets dissipate. Now, all he was truly worried about was whether or not Mike would figure out he was—" _Fuck_ , Mike."

Unsure fingers were interrogating the inside of his body, and had landed on that special spot he recalled Mozzer describing as: a mocking taste of Heaven, complete with a tantalizing balance of pleasure and pain. Of course, Johnny laughed at the overly-dramatic words, however, all he could he really do now was choke on them as he was somewhat clumsily stretched by the drummer a bit longer than he anticipated. ( Mike would have kept probing him until they would both lose their feeling of arousal if Johnny hadn't stopped him when he did.)

"M-Mike, _do it_."

With a grunt, the drummer took his fingers out of the guitarist, and pulled on the condom they had poked about the area for; spreading lube on his covered, hard prick. He wasted no time in bringing his aroused prick to the guitarist's entrance and pushing his way in a bit—whether or not he would be allowed to thrust in this tight cavern, was something he was very well unsure of.

A few moments of waiting for Mike to do so and Johnny knew the answer. (He was rather impatient by this time. Impatient and awfully tired, if anyone ever was.)

"Mike, move."

And move, he did. Slowly for a good, long moment; forceful and unkind. Johnny didn't mind; not at all. These sensations were arousing, and truly, wasn't that all that mattered in this present situation? Yes, he supposed. Those were the only things he thought of . (However, soon enough it was hard for him to think at all); Mike managed to find the awfully peculiar spot within the guitarist's body once or twice more, and the impact his thrusting made finished Johnny off, leaving him lying beneath Mike as the drummer kept on thrusting inside him to find his own release. 

Afterward, here was their predicament: In this dimly-lit room, sweaty and nude and slightly thoughtless, there laid these two men, entangled physically, for the most part, however, separated mentally. 

This being the situation, restlessness was to be expected. Mike promptly made actions to counter attack such an awful condition: pealing the condom off his shaft, Mike got up and discarded it;afterward he roamed around the slightly stuffy room until he found his underpants and trousers. Once the latter article of clothing was in his hands, he fumbled with it until he found his lighter and a cigarette. proceeding afterward to the balcony—if one could call the timid attempt at one such—to enjoy the cool evening air. That, and to smoke a blunt (an activity no one could presently tell him wasn't appropriate).  

"Fuck." 

The crude word shattered the silence that had dominated the atmosphere. After it came a rather audible exhale that found its way past Mike's lips. Johnny grunted in response and got up himself, sleep forgotten, joining Mike in the indulgent activity of smoking.

And for the smallest second he had ever experienced, he felt strangely calm in every aspect that came to mind. _Or_ , it could very well be the mix of alcohol, sex and smoking. Whatever the fact was, the moment only proved to show that he didn't, in particular, give a damn.

 No—he'd drink to that.

**Author's Note:**

> By the way, my playlist for this was basically the whole Hand in Glove album (From Reel Around The Fountain to I Don't Owe You Anything). So if anyone feels like listening to music, here are some.....er, suggestions, haha.


End file.
